


The Douchebag Speech

by viaorel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Derek and Jackson are workout buddies, F/M, M/M, Stiles and Lydia are sassy best friends, Stiles likes to interrupt, Strong Language, Wedding, best man speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viaorel/pseuds/viaorel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson ventures asking his workout buddy Derek to be his wingman for the night, but - what a bummer! - the girl he falls for is with a gay best friend and Derek, being a sport, is to fake his interest in the guy for the sake of his bro, which Jackson feels really guilty about. Not even in his wildest dreams could Jackson think that a couple of years later he would be telling this story at Derek's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Douchebag Speech

**Author's Note:**

> The idea first appeared as a joke and somehow evolved into a story. Enjoy!

Jackson taps on the microphone to make sure it is working.

“Can you guys hear me alright?”

Danny shows him an approving A-ok and gives Stiles a light nudge on the side to shut the guy up. The biggest blabber of the evening gives him the stink eye but does stop mid-sentence, interrupting his heated tongue-wagging session with Lydia about the florist’s work, and turns to the stage.

“Oh,” he drawls idly, his face turning sour, “I guess it’s time for the douchebag speech already.”

“Hey, shut up!” Jackson growls right into the mic, making the guests fidget uncomfortably on their seats, and Danny shows him an _ouch_ expression. “I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous, I’ve never done the best man speech before.”

“Yeah, and what does it say about you?” Stiles stage-whispers and gives an impish wink to Lydia, but she only smacks him on the arm for that and mouths him to zip it, adding some complex threat which is impossible to lip-read.

Jackson unfolds the paper he has been holding onto for the whole evening – one edge is all red from the wine somebody spilled on it at some point of the reception, but Jackson tries to hold it so that it wouldn’t show on camera.

“I have known my good friend Derek for about ten years now,” Jackson starts reading, then darts his eyes around the hall to find the one he is speaking about. Derek, whose place has been occupied by Lydia for the past half hour, is standing behind Stiles, his hands on his husband’s shoulders, an encouraging grin on his face. “We studied together in college, but we weren’t very close back then – he mostly hung out with his own crowd and I – with mine. At some point, however, we were at the same frat, and, boy, do I have some wicked stories to tell you about all the partying we used to have.”

“The husband doesn’t need to hear that, you dumbass,” Stiles articulates, earning joyful chuckles from the guests.

Jackson squeezes the mic so tightly in his hand it makes a dying sound. “But then,” he goes on, eyes straight on the wine-stained sheet, “we ended up working for the same company. Now you might think office bromances are inevitable, but actually the most important recipe for our friendship turned out to be the gym.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Stiles mutters under his breath. It is almost inaudible, but he still gets a gentle smack on the top of the head from Derek.

Jackson clears his throat and waits for more interruptions, but none come. “First we didn’t actually speak much, and I have to say it was probably my fault. Thing is I was a bit jealous of his great physique-”

“Can’t have him, he’s all mine now!” Stiles butts in ands wiggles his fingers to show off his fancy new ring.  


“Oh my God,” Derek sighs and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “This video is going to be so embarrassing to show to our kids. Stiles, will you please have mercy on them and be quiet for three minutes?”

“All right, sweetums,” his husband minces, “but only because you asked nicely.”

Derek rolls his eyes in the _hallelujah_ motion and gives his best man a nod to continue.

“As I was saying,” Jackson utters through his clenched teeth, bloodshot eyes fixed on the maliciously grinning worse half of his friend, “I was a bit jealous of how good he looked even though he didn’t do as many reps as I did and used exactly the same equipment as me, but he still managed to gain muscle quicker. It bugged me so much that I started stalking him to find out if he was using performance enhancers-”

“Oh my God, you did _not_!” Stiles – who else would it be? – snarls angrily. “You did not just call my hubby a user! I knew, I had a gut feeling I should have proof-read your petty speech, you best jerk!”

“Oh for crying out loud,” Lydia enters the battlefield with her big guns – the hardcore yelling. “Will you please just let him finish? He might not be as good with words as you are, but he’s been trying damn hard to write from his heart because he loves your husband and wants him to be happy, don’t you get it, you hopeless motormouth idiot?”

The appropriate reaction would probably be deadly silence, but everyone around, even the guests from Derek’s side, are too used to Lydia and Stiles’ yelling contests, so they just all laugh as if she had told a good joke. Stiles manages to look slightly embarrassed for about five seconds, which is a record-breaking time for him, and then shows her a toothy grin. “Okay, zipping it now. This time – for real.”

“Go on, honey!” Lydia cheers to the best man on the stage. “If he yaps again, I will spill my wine all over his pretty shirt!”

And so Jackson does.

 

_-Then-_

“But you usually take Danny for such missions,” Derek points out between heavy grunts that fly out of him every time he does the curl with the weight in his left arm.

Jackson is on his thirty-seventh pushup right now and he can’t waste his breath on explaining how Danny getting a long-term boyfriend has affected his love life.

“No wingman. Will go down,” he says and thinks it is enough because Derek doesn’t like ramblers and, given the chance, can speak in simple sentences for days. Saving words is his little hobby.

“I’m not very good at that.” Derek puts his weight down after the twelfth rep and shakes his arm, then gets into the position to do his right arm. “In fact, I have never been anyone’s wingman.”

“Oh come on,” Jackson pleads when he is already on his back trying to restore his breath. “You’re great wingman material. I mean, you don’t talk much, but I bet you could say a couple of good things about me, right?”

“Right,” Derek agrees, but not very eagerly. Maybe that’s because he’s struggling with his eighth rep on the fresh arm. “What’s in it for me?”

“You get the friend. It’s like a walk in the park really: you strike up a conversation with both of them, act all friendly and work in a couple of flattering words about me, then I swoop in and charm the girl while you distract the friend. If it’s a group of them – even better, you get to choose who to flirt with. So are you in business or what?”  
“I don’t know.” Derek stands up to grab heavier weights, the ones he likes to do squats with. “Seems like a chore to me. All that talking.”

“Well how do you get all the action if you lose the talking?” Jackson gets up and starts with the squats too because his New Year’s resolution was to get into the same shape as Derek and so far the goal has not become closer.

“It just happens,” Derek shrugs but doesn’t care to elaborate.

In the end, he does say yes but only after Jackson swears to stop sneaking peaks into his locker in search for steroids. They go to Jackson’s bar of choice – the new place he has read about on the internet. It’s not huge yet but has the potential to be: the music is good, the bartender and the waitresses are hot, it has the last client policy and the prices are relatively low, what’s not to like?

“So,” Derek says when they find themselves a table and order beers, “see anything you like?”

Jackson has been darting looks to an Asian girl in the corner since they walked in. She is very cute, and she is here with a less hot friend, which can mean she is looking for someone to score with tonight and not feel threatened.

“That girl,” he points to her and is just about to begin working out a strategy when Derek cuts him off.

“No. _That_ girl.”

Jackson will remember the exact moment he first lays eyes upon Lydia Martin. He will remember it so vividly only to tell her about it many months later, when he proposes, but he doesn’t know that yet. What he does know is the all-consuming feeling in the middle of his chest that if he looks away for a split second now, he will die. The girl is exquisite: the long red hair pulled up in an elaborate hairdo, one curly lock enveloping one side of her face, the large eyes sparkling with delight and impish demeanor, the small upturned nose and the sensitive, very kissable lips. The girl is wearing a fitted burgundy dress which shows off her legs and is heading straight for the bar in confident, carefully measured steps.

Jackson is so mesmerized he doesn’t notice for another five seconds or so that the girl is not alone. Her companion is a guy who is, in Jackson’s experience being Danny’s friend, too good-looking to be straight, and those tight jeans don’t make it any better for him. Besides, even if the two newcomers were romantically involved, they would win worst couple of the year without trying the slightest bit: the first thing they do when they get to the bar is argue over who gets to sit in the only free stool. The girl wins and the guy ends up standing next to her. And now they are fighting over the menu.

“Wow, good eye,” Jackson praises his newbie wingman after remembering how to think. “Okay, now let’s work out a strategy.”

“She is with someone though,” Derek points out, eyes glued to the guy in the tight jeans.

“Please,” Jackson snorts, “he’s her _gay best friend_ , don’t you see the classic signs?”

“There are sighs?” Derek looks confused.

“Like, first off – he always looks her in the eye while speaking to her, totally ignoring her boobs.”

“Maybe she is saying interesting things.”

“When has it stopped anyone? Derek, seriously, look closer. The jeans, the nice haircut, his shirt matches her dress? No? Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Derek looks very closely – in fact, he stares so intensely that the guy feels something and turns for a second. He is really cute, Jackson observes, and just then the realization kicks in: if it were Danny with him now, he would bag this hottie in a heartbeat. Why couldn’t that dumbass decide to be in a relationship a couple of weeks later?

“I will take him,” Derek suddenly says and hops onto his feet as if he were going to do the taking thing right now and, possibly, literally. And in Derek’s world, that might seem like a solid plan, but Jackson is a little more. . . conservative?

 _Me conservative?_ Jackson muses inwardly. _That would be the day_.

“Whoa, hold your horses, man,” he hisses, grabbing Derek by the sleeve. “What are you going to say to him?”

Derek sizes the guy up and then shrugs like it’s no big deal, “Hit on him?”  
“But do you have any idea how to hit on a guy?”

This would be such a good time for Danny to show up and save the day, Jackson finds himself regretting. Derek is too straightforward for such delicate work. However when he frees himself from the grip and strolls to the bar, Jackson does not try to stop him. It is not what good friends are supposed to do, but he is kind of curious how Derek plans to work Mister Tight Jeans and at what point exactly said  guy will blow him off.

 

_-Now-_

“The next part of the story,” Jackson pauses to clear his throat – he is not used to speaking for so long, “is taken from Derek’s words, so don’t blame me if I get some of the facts wrong.”

“You already got it all wrong, fella,” Stiles points out, sounding so excited to finally butt in that Lydia has pity on him and does not fulfill the threat. “Your wife and I never wear matching clothes; that would be as lame as you and Derek wearing the same shirts for your workout routine at the gym. Now if memory serves, my shirt was not burgundy but, in fact, _maroon_ , and this is important for the story because otherwise you pose me and Lydia as some lame-ass stereotypical shopping buddies. Not cool, man. I will remember this.”

“He’s right, honey,” Lydia sighs wearily. “Those are completely different colors.”

“Uh, okay. Touché, I guess,” Jackson mumbles, all thumbs. “All right, moving on. As I was saying, Derek presented me his side of the story way later, when everything was official with him and Stiles, but back then he didn’t want to come out to me, so he tried his best to – listen closely, folks, this is where it gets complicated – he _faked_ his _fake_ interest in Mister TJ.”

“TJ?” Stiles rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue at the same time, which makes his remark twice as bitchy. “That’s even lamer than matching clothes. Come on, man, are you here on a mission to ruin my reputation in front of my whole family and friends and make my husband’s family hate me?”

“Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, the truth is not lost on us!” Laura, Derek’s wiseass sister, gives her brother-in-law an overly excited wave, making Jackson wonder what she actually means by that. He can never understand Laura, she’s too weird.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he says in the microphone to get the attention back, “I don’t know if my information is one hundred percent true, but I will do my best to tell you Derek’s side of the story, adding a pinch of my own memories.”

 

_-Then-_

“Your friend is going out of his way to make my friend like him,” Stiles snorts into his cocktail. “It’s always so funny to watch.”

Derek is not sure what this means, but asking would probably seem lame and so he simply lets it slide. His companion, however, has become even more talkative after the seventh cosmopolitan or whatever this monstrosity is called, and so he clearly feels obliged to enlighten Derek on his insight.

“You see, that’s the thing with you straight guys,” he says, eyes glimmering tipsily like there’s no tomorrow. “You think you can always outsmart your prey.”

“What?”

“Oh, oh!” Stiles suddenly laughs excitedly and points at Derek’s face. “You make a beautiful brow arch when you don’t get stuff! It’s the second amusing thing about you, the first being you taking one for the team because you want to be a good bro.”

“What?” Derek says again, realizing two things at once: that the jig is up and that he sounds really stupid repeating one question two times in a row.

Stiles gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, somehow managing to pull off the Good Nurse look. “It’s okay, relax, man, nobody’s gonna try and get in your pants tonight. It’s just-” here is where he lets out a bitchy giggle “-it’s so freaking funny every time.”

Playing dumb probably wouldn’t win him any points, Derek figures, and besides, Stiles doesn’t look offended at all – if anything, he is actually delighted. What a shithead. He must have had so much fun witnessing Derek’s attempts to look really into him. Who does that?

“Hey,” Stiles gets serious all of a sudden, the smooth flirtiness gone from his voice, “I’m not making fun, it is just my way of dealing with the stupid situation Lydia and I always find ourselves in. It was really hurtful the first couple of times – people pretending to be into you for the sake of their bro scoring with my galpal, fancy that. But laughing it off is better than developing an inferiority complex, don’t you think?”

“Makes sense,” Derek lets out with effort, suddenly feeling like the biggest asshole in the universe. “But don’t you feel bad because of that?”

“Me?” Stiles shows Derek his first genuine smile, not a hint of suggestiveness but pure sweetness. “No, man. As long as you keep them margaritas coming, I’m all yours to play pretend with.”

 

“I think you are missing an important event in your friend’s life by staring down my cleavage,” Lydia observes off-handedly, sipping her drink elegantly.

“What? Why?” Jackson cranes his neck to look at Derek, who is sitting at the bar counter with Mister Tight Jeans, whose name is actually Stiles and who, according to Lydia here, makes a living by writing for supernatural-oriented websites and magazines.  
Lydia gives him a _really?_ look and points at Derek with her glass, “Don’t you see? By God, you gym rats are dense sometimes.”

Jackson doesn’t see. The two are simply talking, Stiles is smiling a lot, Derek does not look as happy, but what else would you expect? He obviously has his victim on the hook, that’s good enough.

“Jesus,” Lydia clicks her tongue.

“Is he. . . Is your friend making my friend switch careers or something? Because I’m pretty sure Derek has a solid five-year career plan (he’s a compulsive planner), and he hates supernatural stuff.”

“Not careers, no,” Lydia chuckles, irritated and amused at the same time. “But if I’m not going blind or stupid right this moment, it seems like my friend is going to make your friend switch something else by the end of the night.”

 

_-Now-_

“I swear this is what she said,” Jackson chuckles and casts his eyes downward, a bit overwhelmed with the roar of laughter from the guests. “And, well, don’t think I’m bigoted or something, but at that point I was fairly sure Derek was as straight as they come. I mean, we showered together no problem, and not even once was there any sort of confusion.”

“That’s because, despite what you think, you’re not everyone’s type,” Stiles growls, not really spitefully though. He then wrinkles his nose to illustrate his point, “Not mine, for one.”

 “That sure would be awkward,” Lydia smiles eerily. “Now shut it and let my man finish.”

She may have twisted the skin of his thigh a little bit under the table, but Jackson can’t tell (Stiles’ pained face is worth the interruption though).

“Okay,” he says uncertainly, “anyway, I was far from seeing Lydia’s point. In the meantime, this is what was happening with Derek and Stiles.”

 

_-Then-_

“Werewolves?”

“There’s that cute brow thing again,” Stiles grins and takes another sip of the monstrosity from his glass. “Yeah, werewolves, why do you sound so confused?”

“It’s just that. . .” It would probably be completely weird to just blurt out that werewolves have been his obsession since forever, Derek figures, but on the other hand, he is talking to the guy for whom weird things are his bread and butter. Sadly, the inborn reticence is too deeply rooted in Derek, and he simply waves the matter off, “Nothing, scratch that.”

“Nothing, yeah, right, nothing my ass,” Stiles snorts into his drink. He’s pretty tipsy now, and the gibberish that shoots out of his mouth does not always make sense – well, not to Derek. “But I respect a man’s right to protect his private interests, so rest assured, Derek Whatever-Last-Name, I won’t bug you about that dorky collection of werewolfy stuff you’ve been drooling over since you were, like, ten.”

“Eight, actually,” Derek feels the insurmountable desire to correct, and for some reason he is not even bothered by his big mouth right now – the guy seems like just the right listener for such odd trivia about other people, not to mention total strangers. “And it’s Hale. Derek Hale.”

“Suits you,” Stiles murmurs, voice soft and a bit flirty again, but Derek is mighty sure it’s the cocktails talking. Stiles blinks groggily a couple of times and then turns to see Lydia and Jackson hitting it off at the other end of the bar. “Is your friend a nice guy, Derek Hale?”

Answering that turns out to be a lot more difficult than Derek may have expected. The most honest answer would be – yes, Jackson is nice, but sometimes he is a real pig with ladies and he is a disgusting kiss-and-tell junkie who will not rest until someone praises his deeds. Danny might be fine with it because, well, it’s Danny, he doesn’t actually listen to all Jackson’s bull, but it can be tiring for less indifferent people, namely Derek. And yes, Jackson can be very generous and thoughtful when he truly likes someone, but when he doesn’t – expect some serious shit flying in your direction on a regular basis.

“He’s. . . multifaceted,” Derek treats the word carefully as if it were a time bomb.

“That means he’s an asshole with rudiments of a decent human being,” Stiles concludes, and the ever-thoughtful expression on his face suddenly makes Derek notice how large and deep the guy’s eyes are. They are. . . quite sightly.

The fascination lasts for a split second, but when it fades, he makes a mental note to ask himself what the hell it was later on.

“Well,” Stiles drawls, yawning into his fist, “that might just be the guy Lydia has been looking for. If so, my handsome not-to-be-lover, this won’t be our last conversation. I’m over the moon, you?”

Derek snorts, but what he actually feels is the familiar chilly anxiety waking in his gut and slowly worming its way up his esophagus.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks, _I’m in trouble now_.

 

_-Now-_

“That sounds like a scene from some lame-ass chick flick,” Stiles cringes and turns back to see Derek do the exact same thing. “Sweetums, what you actually thought was _I’m in deep shit_ , right?”

The way Derek’s cheeks flare up as he shoots a distressed look in his parents’ direction is simply precious, and Laura is the one who chokes on a giggle first. The Hales, however, don’t even flinch – they have nothing against Stiles swearing (if anything, they think it’s cute). Derek has never been scolded for being too free with his tongue sometimes, but he, for some reason, feels incredibly guilty whenever a curse word is spoken in the vicinity of his folks. All the Hales find this behavior odd, except for Laura – she thinks it’s hilarious. Unsurprisingly, it was her idea to challenge Stiles to a swearing contest at one of those incredibly boring family get-togethers. Derek almost died of shame but was still glad that Stiles won.

“Yeah, I know you did, my short-sentence-loving hubby,” Stiles coos and then springs up to attract everyone’s attention. “Hey, people, I know you’re sick and tired of me interrupting this _incredibly interesting_ and _totally true_ story, but can I just butt in for a sec with our side of it? Lydia and I were also there, after all, and it’s kind of my wedding too, so. . .”

Jackson almost manages to fake a hearty smile. “Sure, buddy, hop on the stage.”

“Okay,” Stiles exhales into the microphone after wrestling it from the best man. “Okay, so the same night, as Lydia and I were returning home in a taxi, this is what happened.”

 

_-Then-_

“He is _not_!”

 Stiles’ outrage is so sincere that he even spits on Lydia’s cheek a little bit, but she is too drunk and preoccupied with proving herself right to notice.

“Man, I was sitting fifteen feet away and I still caught the vibes coming from that guy! Coming in _your_ direction!”

“No way, woman, he’s straight! Didn’t you see how scared he looked before talking to me? Clearly he’s not used to hitting on guys, and when you have _that body_ – come on, you must have game, it comes embedded in the demigods like him! Not that I think he’s godlike, I mean, he does have those funny ears and kind of rabbity teeth, but still-”

 “Stop blabbering, you’re distracting the driver.”

“Your dress has slid down a bit, he’s distracted by your boobs.”

At this point, Lydia doesn’t care if the whole town sees her business – she is on a mission to prove a point.

“Stop pretending to be obtuse, man, are you deliberately sabotaging a potentially good thing because you think he’s out of your league?”

“That’s not the point, woman,” Stiles lets out a heavy sigh, “the point is he’s not on my team. At all. Like, he doesn’t even know what our mascot is – that’s how far he is from my team. And why do you want to hook me up with him, anyway? Is it because you want to see his friend again?”

Lydia opens her mouth but stops short in search for the right words. “It’s not that I _like_ him,” she manages finally, “it’s just. . . I don’t know. He might be boyfriend material for me. Perhaps. After a lot of hard work, that is.”

“Derek told me he was a douchebag and they only hung out because they are gym buddies and Jackson’s wingman got the committed relationship bug,” Stiles deadpans, knowing very well it’s cake walk for Lydia to call his bluff, but once in a blue moon, when she has the right mixture of cocktails in her blood, she misses it. “And he’s a total lunatic too! He called his ex-girlfriend fifty seven times once just to record fart noises on her machine.”

“Really?” Lydia makes a bitch face at him. Not the blue moon then. “Well, points for creativity, but go to hell, Stiles. We are going out again, and that’s your punishment for being an insecure dumbass.”

They don’t speak till the end of the ride, and when they get to the apartment they are renting together, Lydia gets a text from Jackson – some unoriginal stuff about the great evening and the next time. It is too soon for an experienced player, both of them agree, but Lydia has had worse. (One time, a guy hacked into the GPS on her phone, found out where she lived and sent her a bucket of roses and a kitten. The kitten stayed and grew into a fat and lazy Mister Lobster, but the guy didn’t share that luck. Oh well, this is what you get for creeping the girl out after knowing her for a day.)

“Night club tomorrow,” Lydia announces along with firing off another text. “And if you don’t get your head out of your ass by that time, I will do something horrible to you in your sleep.”

Stiles lets her know what he thinks of her schemes with a dying animal groan. He is too busy focusing on taking off his clothes to think about that. Maybe later, when his head stops spinning.

 

_-Now-_

“And so we went to the night club the next day,” Stiles announces into the mic, after which he returns it to Jackson, no wrestling this time. “You tell it, I’m not embarrassing myself in front of my in-laws any longer. Oh, and for the record, Mr and Mrs H, I’m not a drunk! I only drank so much that night because I was on edge, your son made me this way, so if anything – blame him.”

The Hales exchange amused glances, and then Mrs. Hale shrugs, devils jig-dancing in her eyes, “Okay, honey.”

“So,” Jackson coughs into the microphone to get everyone’s attention back to him. “At the time Lydia and Stiles were arguing over Derek’s sexuality, I had no such thought whatsoever. If anything, I was on the verge of begging him to keep the act for a little while longer, until I have earned Lydia’s affection.”

“Oh no,” Derek bulges his eyes in fake horror, “you’re not going to tell everyone _the whole story_ , are you?”

_-Then-_

“What if I ask Danny to give you a crash course? It might help.”

Derek looks preoccupied with wrapping his towel around his waist just perfectly, which gives him an excuse to not look his friend in the eye.

“I think I’ll manage.”

“You sure, buddy?” Jackson asks, battling with his sneakers (it’s Saturday and he is allowed to wear whatever the hell he wants). “Because it’s no problem for him, he’s good at explaining stuff.”

“It’s fine,” Derek snaps and sits himself firmly on the bench.

He’s pissed all right but not at Jackson – gosh, it would be so much easier if it were another friendly dispute. The chilly anxiety makes another twist in his gut, and Derek thinks about Stiles’ number in his phone. It’s still a virgin - no calls, no texts yet, - but the sheer thought makes Derek sick to his stomach. He hasn’t felt like that in years and he hasn’t missed it, but it seems like life doesn’t give a flying fuck about what he wants – it _is_ happening, and he is expected to deal with it.

 “Hey, you’re grouchy today,” Jackson hums after putting on his shirt. “Are you sure you’re not on anything?”

Derek shoots his a snappy look. “Getting old, Jackson.”

“No, I know, it’s just an observation. So, back to the subject: night club. Do you know what to do?”

“Yes,” Derek deadpans. It would sure do both of them some good to talk this matter through, but right now he doesn’t want to address the issue even remotely – not until he decides for sure that what he felt last night wasn’t some idiotic glitch. If only it were a glitch! . .

“I mean, I’m really sorry, man, that you’re stuck with her friend, I would try to twist Danny’s arm again, but it’s too late – Tight Jeans digs you.”

“It’s fine,” Derek spits through his barely open teeth. _Just shut the hell up, Jackson, stop talking about it, now_.

 “And it’s not like you have to _do_ anything with him,” Clearly Jackson is not a secret psychic and is as far from being fluent in body language as it can get. “You just. . . hang out, you know, talk about stuff. Do you have stuff you can talk about with him?”

“Yes.”

“And as far as dancing goes – well, he’s quite hot actually, I don’t think you’ll have to dance with him the whole night, the takers are going to line up for a chance.”

“No doubt.”

 “And Lydia says her friend is an eager talker – maybe you won’t even have to rack your brain about it, the guy will just entertain himself.”

“That would help.”

“See? Now don’t make such a sour face, I will owe you a big one after that.”

“Great.”

The streak of one-liners should have been a clear enough sign that something is wrong, but Jackson obviously doesn’t know Derek well enough to notice, so he just keeps blabbing all the way out of the gym, where each goes separate ways until the night comes.

Derek doesn’t see it as an actual date – for Jackson, maybe, but not for him. It’s totally not a date, which is exactly why he meticulously irons his lucky shirt (the one that allegedly kept him safe and sound in the car crash he got into a couple of years ago), wears his best-fitting jeans (the ones that make heads turn wherever he goes) and even does his hair, which is the tell-tale even Jackson would not miss. Well, maybe not Jackson, but definitely Laura, who is crashing at his place because she is in her lazy mode and can’t find a job.

“Look at you all dolled-up!” she observes from the couch, where she has been lying all day with her laptop on her stomach, browsing aimlessly in her wrinkled pajamas with pieces of food on her chest. “What’s the occasion? Or should I rather say _who_?”

“It’s nothing,” Derek stresses. He loves his sister, but when she’s bored, she gets appallingly nosy.

“Nothing my ass, Derek!” She swings the laptop shut and gets on her feet with the speed of light. Oh boy, he’s busted now. “Come on, where are you going?”

Eventually, after ten fruitless minutes of being doggedly chased around the apartment, he tells her about the wingman thing with Jackson, leaving the Stiles being a guy part out, but Laura (curse her hunches!) figures the rest out almost effortlessly.

“No way you are wearing those to impress a girl,” she says, pointing at his jeans, which, okay, might be a little too tight. Her eyes turn irritably impish as she keeps deducing, “You are going through your gay phase again, aren’t you?”

For a split second, Derek feels suffocated by the air.

“What the hell, Laura?”

He tries to escape into the bathroom, but she works her foot in before he manages to shut the door.

“That’s okay, little bro, nobody’s judging, do you see anyone pointing fingers and laughing? No, then it means it’s okay. Okay?”

“You could really use some vocabulary expansion, you know,” he mumbles and lets go of the handle to invite her in. For a silent moment, they stare into their reflections in the mirror, looking for something in each other’s eyes, and the anxiety inside Derek’s body is going rabid. He swallows it down along with his pride and all the bitchy remarks dangling on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t know anything yet,” he admits finally, overcome with a strange sense of calmness. “I don’t think I want it to come.”

The corners of Laura’s lips plummet down, making her suddenly look morose and much older. Carefully, she wraps her arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a sheepish half-hug. “Listen, not all guys are assholes, and despite what you might secretly think, you are not cursed – nice people also fall for you. I mean, I can’t guarantee this one will turn out to be someone you will eventually marry and have a bunch of kids with, but hey, there’s a fat chance that’s the case. You feel me?”

The naked sincerity in her words makes his heart do strange and painful things inside his chest, and he clenches his teeth hard to make himself stop noticing it and focus on something else, but it hurts so damn much.

“Hey, you want me to come with you, check that guy out?” she offers, gently stroking his shoulder.

“No, I’m fine. Besides, he thinks I’m straight and in it only as a wingman for my friend.”

She raises her eyebrows so high they get lost in her fringe. “So-o-o. . . Are you planning on telling him?”

Derek straightens his shirt and fixes his hair, looking nervously in the mirror. “Haven’t decided yet.”

 

“Nice touch,” Stiles spreads his lips in a naughty grin and actually pats Derek’s thigh like he does that every day. “The jeans. If you just worked that body a little more, you would actually pass as my date.”

“I _am_ your date.”

Derek cannot say those words looking at that grin, and he drops his gaze. Stiles is wearing nice shoes. Not that it matters one bit. Just an innocent observation. He can still feel the warmth of this brazen guy’s hand on his thigh, and the sensation is even more confusing than talking with Laura about personal stuff.

“Sure you are, man,” Stiles gives him a wink and then shifts his gaze to see Lydia dancing with Jackson. “You know, surprisingly, your act is rather convincing. I mean, I have already spotted several disappointed looks by the fact that you are not alone, and my friend is convinced you’re into me – that’s how good you are.”

“Oh, yeah?” is all Derek can say, and it sounds even lamer spoken out loud than in his head. Derek can’t help being lame at moments like these, he never knows what to say and, most importantly, where to put his hands.

Stiles, however, doesn’t seem to be at all bothered by the short responses – maybe Jackson was right when he said the guy could entertain himself the whole night.

“So, I’m guessing the night club was not your first choice,” he suggests with a teasing smile. Which is very cute. “It wasn’t your choice at all, right? Your friend, on the other hand, seems very confident here – look at him move, gosh. I wish I were that graceful, but, according to Lydia, I was a hippo in my previous life. Huh, perhaps the two of them are a good match after all – Lydia loves partying. So much, in fact, that she has this rule to party only once a week and only if she has managed to accomplish at least 80 per cent of her week plan. She’s really hard on herself, that woman.”

Making plans is familiar ground for Derek: he has been into day-planning since he became a high school senior and began his preparation for entering the university he wanted. He has failed a lot on the way, but eventually, after eight years of struggling with all sorts of blocks, it has finally turned into a pleasant routine. Talking about lists – he can do that.

“Are you into day-planning?” he asks carefully, leaning in close for Stiles to be able to hear him – night clubs are not conversation-friendly, even the so-called quiet zones.

“Me?” Stiles makes a sour face. “Nah, but it is one of the things I adore in people – being able to control your time. Personally I just go with the flow, but it’s not as bad now that Lydia and I are living together. She can get me out of bed for morning yoga about three times a week, I guess, and she finds sick pleasure in nagging me at the end of the day about my accomplishments; when I stay up late writing a piece or simply browsing, she threatens to call my dad and sell him dirt on me. Apart from that, she’s a nice lady – _not_ a controlling bitch that you might have thought she was after listening to me.” He shoots Derek a deer-in-the-headlights look and pleads in horror, “Please don’t tell Jackson all those things.”

It is completely charming – the way he is afraid of ruining his friend’s possible relationship with his big mouth, and Derek can’t help an amused smile. “I won’t.”

“A gentleman’s agreement,” Stiles announces and offers Derek his hand to shake. He has beautiful fingers, especially for a guy.

They talk about Lydia some more – well, Stiles does most of the talking, to be precise, - then about werewolves and how cool they are, and then the two dancers join them at the table, all sweaty and happy. It comes so naturally for them to touch, Derek notices off-handedly, and for a couple of seconds he can’t help but feel jealous of them. It’s stupid, he knows it, but he and Stiles touched only twice, when Stiles was complimenting him on his jeans and when they shook hands. It hardly seems fair.

“Why haven’t you danced yet?” asks Lydia, grinning widely at both of them. “I know Stiles is too embarrassed of his total lack of grace, but you, Derek, look like a hell of a dancer. Go teach him some moves or something!”

The thought of the two of them dancing – and touching, a lot, - makes Derek a little light-headed, but Jackson butts in to save the day (or so he thinks). “Baby, he’s sore from today’s workout,” he declares with an honest face. “The trainer went extra hard on him because he had missed three days before that, and now Derek is no good at the dance floor. Maybe another time. Sorry, Stiles.”

“That’s okay,” Stiles gives him a creepy smile with his lips sewn shut. “We’re having our fun.”

It feels uncomfortable and far too crowded with the four of them at the table, and eventually Lydia almost forces Jackson back to the dance floor, sending her friend a strange wink before leaving. Derek knows he was not supposed to see that, but Stiles’ reaction makes it all worth it – the guy who was so nervy just a while ago, touching another man’s thigh like it’s no big deal, dropped his gaze instantaneously and seemed almost ashamed of something. What can he possibly be ashamed of?

It takes them a while to get the conversation going again, and soon Derek forgets about everything, preoccupied with screening the insanely loud music and the nagging sensation of hundred bodies around him for the sake of concentrating on his interlocutor. It is apparent Stiles knows his language – he does speak a lot, but even when he is deep in the story, reliving it as his mind turns images into words, he is very careful not to repeat himself or spoil the picture with expletives. It is much like watching someone impale pearl beads on a thread to make a beautiful necklace: no bead is out of place, each occupies just the right place, and even the occasional curse words don’t corrupt but compliment the picture. It is fascinating.

Derek would like to keep up – he, after all, also has interesting stories to tell, - but gives up fairly quickly and sticks to buying drinks. Now he knows that Stiles and Lydia are originally from a small town and even graduated from the same school, but they weren’t friends. While freshmen at college, they dated for a short while but, thankfully, realized soon enough they were shaping up to be the worst couple in the universe, got over it and have been inseparable since. Derek also knows that as a kid Stiles dreamed of becoming a police officer just like his dad, but life had other plans for him.

“I’m writing a book now,” Stiles finishes, not quite swelling with pride but very close. “It contains my paranormal investigation experience and some theories I have. It’s far from being finished yet, first I need to do tons of additional research, and I don’t have the equipment for that, but I’m feeling fairly optimistic.”

He keeps saying something, but Derek’s attention gets diverted when he suddenly becomes acutely aware of how red Stiles’ cheeks have become from all the alcohol and the talking. One would think that here sits a shy guy, too shy to reach out his hand and touch the hand of the person he likes, but hey, it’s not Stiles, is it. It’s the other way around.

Derek feels so stupid and so inadequate in his own skin that the only sound he can hear now is his blood rushing in his head. Why is all this happening to him? He doesn’t need that, not now, not ever. What would Mom and Dad say if they knew, and what’s the point of this, anyway? He’s not a teenager anymore to only follow his heart blindly, and it’s not like Stiles is someone he can move in together, and make serious plans, and go to family dinners to discuss with other Hales what schools their kids will go to. It doesn’t make any sense, all of it. And yet. . .

“We’re leaving.”

It’s Lydia. She and Jackson look horny enough to rip each other’s clothes off right here and right now (must be all the dancing), and her tone is not informing but commanding. She is looking at Stiles while she is saying this, which probably means that he is not allowed to return home with her tonight.

“Baby, wait a sec,” Jackson tries to interrupt with a sparkle of sense. “We can go to my place, and Stiles can go home and-”

“When I’m not completely sober,” Lydia announces, getting on the high horse gracefully yet ruthlessly, “I spend the night only at my place. That means the concierge and the front door camera will have the face of whomever I come home with and I will never be found lying in some ditch headless and mutilated beyond recognition. I hope that’s okay with you, Jackson.”

The bitch tone is so immaculate Derek almost applauds, and Jackson, his poor clueless friend, deflates in a matter of seconds. He looks at Derek, and his thoughts are written all over his face: _Sorry, bro, I tried_.

“Meanwhile,” Lydia continues as if she hadn’t done enough damage already, “your friend and my friend can go somewhere else to have fun if none of them is big on dancing. Right, guys?”

“What are you doing, woman?” Stiles hisses, eyes narrowed, but Derek can feel he is scared.

Lydia ignores the question and puts her hand in the loop of Jackson’s arm.

“See you tomorrow, Stiles. Bye, Derek.”

If Stiles wasn’t panicking so obviously now, Derek thinks with a hint of amusement, he would notice that he is not alone in his misery, but the truth evades Stiles for the time being, and Derek feels thankful for some reason.

“What’s up with that?” Stiles chuckles, trying to sound like the king of casual and failing marvelously. “I’m pretty sure it’s called being an A-grade bitch. Your friend, too – way to have your back! Jeez, now I’m absolutely sure those two deserve each other, the fuckers.”

Derek shows him the apologetic text with a sad face Jackson has just sent him, and they both have a good laugh about that. “At least my friend is capable of feeling remorse,” he points out, “while yours just sounded cruel, kicking you out of your own apartment like that.”

“Yeah, well, Lydia likes to have her sweet time with her dates,” Stiles shrugs, “which probably includes naked cooking and dirty sex talk for the neighbors to hear. I’m only guessing here, of course – Lydia and I never got to that part in our three miserable weeks of dating, and she is very secretive about such things.”

They exchange a couple of silly lines about their friends being major assholes – and then there is an uncomfortable silence with no more topics to shield them from what is coming next.

“Well,” Stiles lingers with a fake smile, “Jackson got what he wanted, so I guess you’re free to go for the night.”

Derek feels his throat going dry, and he cannot find the words, not the ones he actually wants to say, so he simply blurts out whatever comes to mind first, “Where will you go?”

Stiles tries very hard to work the casual act. “Don’t worry about me,” he assures, “I can crash at Scott’s – he’s my best friend among guys. Can’t say he’ll be very happy to see me (his wife is six months pregnant and is being an insufferable psycho with all the mood swings and the cravings), but doing favors is what friends are for, right?”

“No, wait.” Derek finds himself standing up and waving Stiles towards the exit. His phone is already in his hand.

 _What the hell are you doing?_ a voice screams in his head, panic mode full-on. _Stop while you still can, will you just fucking stop for a second and think about it?_

Laura picks up while they are already near the road and Derek is scanning it for a vacant taxi. “What?”

“I need you to stay at Mom and Dad’s tonight,” Derek instructs, trying to sound quiet, but he is pretty sure Stiles, who is lagging being, his face wearing a big fat question mark, can hear every word.

There is a low hearty chuckle on the line. “Way ahead of you, bro. Hey, Uncle Pete and I are drinking hot wine and reading Cora’s diary, do you and your mysterious gentleman friend want to join?”

“What? No!” Unintentionally Derek turns to his “gentleman friend”, terrified that he could hear that, too. “So, you’re not at my place?”

“I took off the second you left, bro. Hate being the cockblock.”

“Tell him to wear a condom, sweetie,” he hears Uncle Peter’s level voice instructing and can’t help but blush at that.

“Hear that?” Laura giggles a trifle tipsily into his ear. “Anyways, I’ll come in the morning, so make sure everyone’s decent by that time. Deal?”

“Deal,” Derek sighs and signals for a passing taxi to stop. “Thanks. And tell Uncle Peter to shut his big mouth.”

“Don’t worry, Mom and Dad are out at some fancy-ass party and Cora’s at a sleepover, so it’s just us and her most private secrets to entertain our sick minds. I’m not even sure who’s going to have more fun tonight: me or you. Anyway, ta-ta!”

The taxi ride is quiet: Stiles spends the whole time scrutinizing his fingernails on his lap, and the lost, insecure expression he wears does unpleasant things to Derek on the inside. He doesn’t like the feeling, and he doesn’t like Stiles’ expression either but he stays out of it and throws his gaze at the passing city lights, giving his attention away piece by piece. The heavy silence between them is urgent and hovering like a purple cloud hanging over the field and waiting for the right moment to spill its insides onto it. Only when is the right moment for them? Derek doesn’t know, and he bites the inside of his cheek and he watches the night view, seeking answers elsewhere – his mind is vacant and unserviceable.

It takes Stiles the full walk to Derek’s front door and a couple of seconds in which Derek fumbles for his keys to burst.

“Listen, what is this about? Are you making me your charity case because you’re such a mighty wingman? I mean, man, I _have_ places to go, I won’t spend the night out like a stray animal and Lydia knows that, otherwise she’d never have done something like that. You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Derek breaks him off, silently disapproving of the amount of spunk it takes from him to say these words. It takes even more to look at Stiles, this strange blabbermouth who seems much younger than he actually is and who fakes sassiness for the sake of God knows what.

Stiles’ huge worried eyes are fixated on him, craving answers.

“You want to what?” he demands, voice just a trifle uneven. “You want to play the Good Samaritan and provide shelter for poor old me, is that it? Or is it that you want to be a sport and keep the stale act no one cares about anymore? In both cases, it’s a dick move, Derek, and I don’t appreciate being treated this way.”

“Well,” Derek swallows audibly, feeling vertigo almost consuming him, but he does not have the power to stop now, “why did you agree to go then? Why did you wait this whole time?”

It’s too blunt, too forceful and intruding, he knows that, but right now every inch of his mind is so deeply soaked in panic that the emergency mode turns on unwanted and he turns into an impudent, uncivil bully. The words were too blunt though – Derek feels something crack and then break in half in Stiles’ defense system, and all the attitude flows out of his posture as if through hidden cracks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles strays his eyes, suddenly looking not angry but lost. “I thought I had you figured out, but you’re not like all the wingmen that got stuck with me.”

“Maybe I’m not acting as a good wingman now,” Derek the bully shrugs like it’s no big deal and presses the handle to open the door. “Are you coming or what?”

But Stiles only jerks his head up to sting Derek with an intense stare – and the fight is back. “No, you can’t just drop the bomb here and seriously expect me to go with the flow, it doesn’t work that way, not in my world.” He inhales deeply, holds his breath, and when he exhales, the tirade pours out of him, getting louder and more destructive with each new word, just like an avalanche. “If you stand by what you just said, what the hell is this supposed to mean? What do I make of it? Do you dig me all of a sudden? Well in that case you and I might have a problem because you sure don’t look like it, and fucking with a guy’s brain for whatever twisted reason is not cool – I repeat, not cool, man! I mean, is this your game, is this how you like to play it?”

Derek is almost ready to let his adventure-seeking side take a hike for the night and simply shut the door, leaving the weirdness of everything and Stiles behind it, but something keeps him rooted at the threshold. Maybe it’s the wounded, vulnerable bareness in the brown eyes flaming at the distance, so short and at the same time insurmountable for him.

“What game?” the still dominating bully in him croaks, and at this moment Derek realizes, with bitterness burning the tip of his tongue, that he is ruining something very good for himself with his own hands.

Stiles makes a range of stormy gestures but remains unsatisfied with the outcome and spits out angrily, “This game or whatever you call it! It’s not fair to keep things up your sleeve while I’ve been nothing but frank with you from day one! You were not played, you knew what you were in for because _I told you that_ and I deserve the courtesy returned!”

Derek struggles to swallow a dry lump blocking his esophagus. He can’t cover that distance. It’s impossible.

“What do you want from me?”

There is heavy silence between them for so many seconds it starts to press them from above, and then a choked disappointed snicker escapes Stiles’ lips and into the dark. “Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath and turns, ready to leave.

Without thinking, Derek catches him roughly by the elbow and jerks him back hastily, not quite sure what he is going to do next, but when he spots surprise and an atomic fraction of fear flaming up Stiles’ eyes on the inside, the bully inside him cowers and gives way to someone new, someone nameless yet determined not to let go of that elbow.

His hands feel weightless and foreign when he awkwardly puts them on Stiles’ hips and pulls him closer, still a bit rough, but as soon as Derek lowers his head and their foreheads touch – something almost audibly clicks back in place in Derek’s head and, with a small shudder of agitation shaking his whole body, he knows what he needs to do now.

 

_-Now-_

“To be completely honest,” Stiles puts in his two cents a bit too loudly, and even Jackson can see red blossoming on the guy’s cheeks and escaping down his neck, “there was that one second of hesitation before he kissed me, which kind of ruined the whole tough guy act. It’s like, seriously, man, if you’re doing the shut-up kiss – do it right! No regrets, just get on with it!”

“That’s what he said to me first thing after we broke off the kiss,” Derek raises his eyebrows like he still can’t believe it. “Seriously, some nerve this guy has. And then,” he lifts his index finger, “he complained about my poker face being too good.”

“You still should have said something, you sneaky creeper!” Stiles almost jumps up from his seat accusing, but Derek’s firm hands sit him back.

“Oh my God, you guys,” Laura half-wails, smearing the black of her destroyed make-up all over her ruddy cheeks. “You were both super adorable and super lame, I still can’t decide which was prevalent.”

“Oh it was lame all right,” Uncle Peter pipes up with his toothy grin and his coarse cackle.

This starts a wave of discussion over the tables, but Jackson shuts everyone up by tipping on the microphone. “Guys, hold it for a minute, I haven’t gotten to the best part yet, said part being the next morning when I sobered up enough to realize how much I had set Derek up.”

 

_-Then-_

He can still feel Lydia’s perfume, heavy and stiflingly sweet, on his skin when he leaves her apartment late in the morning, his wrists a little sore from the handcuffs and some weird angelic voices singing stupid gibberish inside his head. The odor makes it difficult to concentrate, and Jackson already makes it to the entrance door of the building when he finally remembers about Derek.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, thus earning the stink eye from the middle-aged and extremely unfriendly concierge scrutinizing him from his booth, “fuckity fuck, I’m such an asshole.”

“You bet,” flies the peculiar farewell from the booth when he leaves the building, his phone already in his hand, dialing away.

It takes eight long beeps for the other line to come to life.

“Hello,” a groggy voice whispers into Jackson’s ear, and for a second there he is absolutely sure that it is not Derek – Derek is a morning person, he never sounds like this on the phone, but then logic kicks in and shuts the sixth sense up.

Who else would it be, seriously?

“Derek, man, where do I begin to say how sorry I am?” Jackson pulls out the big guns right away, afraid that his best friend in the whole gym might hang up on him. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to leave you up there with him, it wasn’t part of the plan. I mean, I had no idea she’d be so straightforward about things, you know, I didn’t even have enough time to regroup and come up with a proper action plan. Are you mad?”

“Yeah, this is not Derek,” the grogginess clears up, and the voice turns out to be actually completely different from Derek’s.

Jackson freezes in the middle of crossing the street, and the impatient honking is the only thing that shakes him out of it. When he is in the safety of the pedestrian zone again, he licks his lips nervously trying to match the voice to a face in his head. It sounds a bit familiar, but not really, like a voice of someone you once heard on the street saying something weird and, for some reason, remembered it.

“Who is it?” Jackson finally gives up, mortified with his debility. “And where is Derek?”

“Making coffee,” the stranger grins (at least it sounds like it). “And it’s Stiles, didn’t you recognize me? Seriously, man, I know Lydia’s hot, but you should pay attention to other things as well.”

“You sound different on the phone,” Jackson lies, feeling like he has just won the biggest loser of the universe award and the prize of being brain-amputated. “Er, so Derek had you stay overnight.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Huh. I see. And he is making coffee for you now.”

“He certainly is.”

“Well. That’s nice. Have you guys just woken up then?”

“Yeah, more or less. You know how it goes: you wake up, then you want to stay in bed a little while longer, and then someone’s nosy sibling spoils all the fun and the guest has to leave but not without the apologetic coffee – I always have my coffee in the morning, nosy sibling or not.”

Jackson is not sure he is getting it right. Why would Derek let this guy stay in his apartment – in his bed, for Christ’s sake! – for more than it is required when you provide shelter for someone you barely know? It doesn’t add up, especially knowing how unsociable and reserved Derek is with people.

“Uh. Okay. Did you guys have a good night’s sleep or were you up doing stuff?”

“Stuff, yeah, you can put it that way,” Stiles agrees, and something in his smug voice feels incredibly fishy.

Jackson keeps walking like a robot on a mission to walk for eternity, and it doesn’t really matter now that he has just missed the bus stop. What matters is to uncover what hides beneath all that smugness in that cheeky dickhead’s voice.

“What did you guys do then?” Jackson gathers his forces for another attempt, and then Stiles laughs – sincerely, heartily, as if he had just heard a good joke.

“Well,” he lingers for two straight seconds, “to put it in gym rat terms, we had some serious cardio workout, some yoga and maybe some protein shakes in the process.”

Jackson hangs up, accompanied by smug giggles, and doesn’t call back until afternoon when it’s time for his and Derek’s workout (he is not really sure he can ever again pronounce this word in context with Derek without blushing). Stiles answers again and accidentally ends up assigning new meanings to a lot of other seemingly innocent gym equipment and activities Jackson used to like.

Jackson ends up working out alone that day.

 

_-Now-_

“Oh my God, you actually told everyone about the protein shakes,” Derek covers his eyes with his hand, seeming embarrassed and ready to burst out laughing any minute now. He is the only one who is still holding up – all the others, even Stiles’ father – lie on the tables and hold on to each other’s shoulders roaring with hysterical laughter.

“Mind you, I couldn’t drink them for a month after that conversation,” Jackson scoffs, “and I still hate yoga.”

“That’s because you don’t appreciate all the benefits it brings,” Stiles gives him a dirty wink, and with that, the fun part of the speech is clearly over, it’s time to be serious again.

“Well, to be honest,” Jackson mumbles to his shoes, suddenly acutely aware of everyone paying attention, “I’m not very good at big words, that’s actually why I chose to tell you guys this story. But what I still want to say is. . .” He pauses briefly to look warmly at Derek, who gives him a small nod of encouragement. “The whole thing hasn’t been easy for me, it’s still not. Stiles and I will probably never stop being at each other’s throats, but it’s not because we can’t get along – I’m sure if we tried, we’d make decent friends, - but it’s because deep down I still see this guy as someone who is to blame for ruining my perfect workout routine with Derek (I mean, you have no idea how much time they used to spend together when they started dating – it was obscene). I guess that’s why all the fighting – I’ll never forgive him for that.”

“That and for the fact that, being Lydia’s best friend, I have so much blackmail material on you I could destroy your whole life in three seconds,” Stiles retorts with a grin and springs up enthusiastically. “Now come on, get off that stage with your douchey speech, it’s time the real best man took floor! McCall, get your ass over here!”

  Scott is then pushed onto the stage by his wife, and though his memories of Derek and Stiles are also fond and sweet, the success of protein shakes cannot be beaten and in the end even Stiles has to admit this. Later in the evening, he sneaks up to Jackson while no one is watching and gives him a friendly nudge on the shoulder.

“Not bad for the biggest douchebag I know.”

Jackson snickers, flattered and annoyed at the same time. “Well, you helped.”

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to crack up a slightly embarrassed smile. “It was über stoic of you not to bash my head in for all the interruptions.”

“Maybe next time,” Jackson gives him a plotful wink, and with that the temporary truce is settled.

“Okay then,” Stiles revolves oh his heels and scans the hall in search for his husband, who is surrounded by a circle of relatives and seems to be dying for a chance to bail. “Excuse me!” Stiles navigates through the crowd, stepping on someone’s toes and working his elbows way too actively. “Sorry, sorry! There you are!” he exhales, grabbing Derek by the elbow and pulling him close. “Sorry, all the Hales, but I’ve got to borrow my husband pronto.”

“Oh come on, you will have the whole lifetime with him and I’m leaving tomorrow!” Laura whines, but Stiles gives her the widest, toothiest grin he can physically pull off and explains nonchalantly, “I apologize, but it’s important to stick to a certain routine, and right now Derek and I have a workout planned. Will be back in half an hour!”

The Hales, even the oldest ones, snigger like school children in their backs, and Uncle Peter advises in his calm orderly fashion, “Don’t forget your protein shakes.”

“Never do!” Stiles shouts out cheerfully, dragging Derek after him to finally, after all this long day, be alone for a while.

When they are up in the privacy of their room, Derek leans on the door and shakes his head with a tipsy grin, “You do realize they will torment us forever with this joke, right?”

“Yesss,” Stiles hisses into his husband’s slightly open mouth and then nibs at his lower lip. “Now get out of these fancy clothes, buddy, we’ve got some working out to do. It’s going to be steamy.”

 

 

 


End file.
